Page 59 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“A misfortune, Mrs. Bennet? I do not understand you. All of us must pass, as is ordained by God. A strong woman would not repine at the loss of a husband, but rejoice that she has the strength and will to manage her affairs. Rosings, under my management, flourishes.”

“Quite so, Lady Catherine’s benevolence to the parish is the talk of Kent.” Mr. Collins slurped another mouthful of soup. “Why, only last week, she admonished two of the cottagers for being discontented…”

Lady Catherine continued her discourse, completely ignoring Mr. Collins. Truthfully, we all ignored his speech, which was only stopped when he hastily put his hand to his mouth as her ladyship spoke over him. An unfortunate occurrence, for the same hand held his spoon, generously filled with white soup. I smirked as Fitzwilliam, anticipating a direct assault on his waistcoat, hastily pulled his napkin from his lap to cover his chest.

“Your husband’s estate was entailed on Mr. Collins. I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line—it was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. So, having lost your estate to Mr. Collins, you now wish to gain another?”

“Whatever can you mean, Lady Catherine? I have no need for another estate—I am mistress, in my own right, of Hathaway House. Though modest compared to Rosings, it is more than sufficient for Elizabeth and myself.” Mama smiled, her eyes crinkling with good humour—ignoring Lady Catherine’s barb—and signalled a footman to pass the fish to Mr. Darcy. Fortunately, it had survived being assailed by Mr. Collins’s soup-laden catapult.

“I do hope, sir, that the salmon is to your liking,” she said, addressing Mr. Darcy. “Mr. Bennet was always particular about the way it was dressed—he believed in the simplest seasonings. But both Mrs. Abernathy and I agreed that a pinch of lemon adds both zest and enhances the natural flavour.”

“It is excellent, Mrs. Bennet. Please pass my compliments to our cook.”

Lady Catherine immediately interposed. “I must say, Mrs. Bennet, you surprise me. I had not supposed you would interest yourself in such domestic matters.”

Mama resumed sipping her soup.

“At Rosings, my chef is French. Lemon on salmon?—he certainly would not approve it! Naturally, he adds lemon to his soufflé, which is known throughout Kent.”

“Your chef’s reputation precedes him, Lady Catherine,” said Mrs. Bennet, laying down her spoon. “I hope to sample his soufflé one day. As for me, I have always believed that attending to one’s household, in whatever manner one is able, is a duty not beneath any woman, no matter her station.”

“Duty, yes, but one must have the proper staff. I cannot imagine managing the kitchen staff personally—it is not to be expected for ladies of consequence. I am sure you would agree, George?”

“Why, only a few weeks past, Mrs. Wainwright, the vicar of Kympton’s wife, made the same suggestion,” he replied amiably. “I assured her that Lady Anne took a great interest in the household, and was often in conversation with Mrs. Reynolds and Cook. Her guidance made Pemberley the home it is—as does Mrs. Bennet.”

“Harrumph!” Again, well executed with a dash of disdain. “I suppose each must do as she is able, though some are born to higher expectations. My Anne, for example, has never so much as set foot in the kitchens, nor would I permit such a thing.”

“Miss de Bourgh is very fortunate to have your protection, Lady Catherine. I have always encouraged my daughters to know every part of their home, though I never required more of them than was proper.” Mama signalled the removal of the first course.

Mr. Collins turned to me. “You are accomplished in the kitchen, cousin Elizabeth? What a fortunate circumstance. The income from Longbourn, diminished as it is, cannot afford the expense of a cook. Such economy we shall enjoy, and salmon of such piquant flavour!”

Darcy looked at me expectantly. ’She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.’ Proverbs—Oh, Mary, please restrain yourself.

Mr. Collins beamed. “I can well forgive you, cousin, for your impertinence when we first met. Your knowledge of the duty of a wife is exemplary.”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Oh, Mr. Collins, Elizabeth will have you trussed up: Go to, i’ faith, an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays!”

“Fitzwilliam, I do not understand it—speak plainly.” Lady Catherine glared at her nephew. Sitting beside her, I attempted to shrink into insignificance. Unfortunately, I remained visible. “Miss Bennet, he spoke of you with such improper familiarity; but that aside—I will address his impropriety later—but what is his meaning?”

“My lady, from Shakespeare… it means that if a man stubbornly chooses to get married, he deserves the burden and misery that come with it. It was spoken by Benedicke to Claudio.”

She was silent for a while, as servants placed the second course of roasted game and vegetables drowned in butter sauce on the table. Far too rich for our liking, but a favourite of her ladyship.

“I cannot agree, Fitzwilliam. Sir Lewis was quite enamoured of our marriage. Why, before he passed, he remarked that our union was all that he had expected—an exercise in peaceful surrender… that he was well content to allow me to run the estate while enjoying the company of his horses.”

Poor Georgiana, she could scarce contain herself, holding her napkin to her mouth; Mr. Collins nodded sagely; Miss de Bourgh looked bewildered; the corners of Darcy’s mouth twitched. The naughty, teasing man! He smiled, catching my eye—his eyes, caught in the flickering candlelight, were dark, intense, and compelling. He held my attention. I blushed and lowered my gaze; oh, how mortifying, that the hue of my bosom, surely creeping up my neck, now matched the colour of my rose-tinted sash.

‘Lydia,’ I murmured, ‘poke out your tongue at him.’

Lady Catherine continued to prattle; Mrs. Bennet, as hostess, moved the conversation to topics where others at the table could participate. Miss de Bourgh said not a word; Georgiana was transfixed by the repartee between the two principal ladies; and I was astonished by my own reluctance to speak. Too aware, perhaps, that Fitzwilliam continued to alternate his gaze between Lady Catherine—quietly smirking whenever he did—and me. Was there gravy on my face? Was it disapproval for having impertinently stuck out my tongue? Yet, there was such tenderness in his expression that I finally decided I had been fully accepted as a sister to Georgiana. Having survived a Darcy family dinner with Lady Catherine in full force was initiation enough.

* * *

Chapter 24

Pemberley

‘It Cannot Rain but it Pours,’ said Jonathan Swift—the title of his 1726 satirical book, London Strewed with Rarities. Two days after Lady Catherine’s arrival at Pemberley, the rain that had been decreed not to fall on Kent poured down on Derbyshire. It was a vicious storm, lashing the house incessantly for a day and a night, and when we awoke the day after, the stream at the front of the house had become a river—a swirling brown torrent carrying trees, bushes torn from their footings, and the occasional drowned sheep dragged beneath the arches of the bridge.